The Price of Courage
by FieryPen37
Summary: When Belle and the Dark One find themselves linked by magic, they both must learn to balance authority, freedom, hatred and maybe something more.


The Price of Courage

Chapter 1

The day she died, it was a brilliant sunny dawn. Belle hungrily took in the sun and sky, the scent of old stone and the sea. A strong cold wind blew from the west, almost dispelling the crimson mist that clung to the ogre encampment surrounding them. The wind brought her the snatches of screams and the stench of rot, old blood, and desperation. Avonlea was gone, this lone fortress of Autumnhaven was all that stood between the Marchlands and utter ruin. Even now, the ogres battered at the gates, the very last of her people crying out to their gods for mercy.

"Steel yourself, child. Do not taint the sacrifice with doubt," the witch's voice broke her reverie.

"I have chosen this. No one decides my fate but me," Belle said, blaming the cold for the quaver in her voice. Belle turned from the dawn's beauty and saw the bier wreathed with red-flamed candles and the witch a red-cowled figure, an apt metaphor for what awaited her.

"Then let us begin, time grows short," the witch said. Belle nodded, the tower door opening to admit her father.

"I cannot do this. Do not ask it of me!" Papa cried as the witch's acolytes ushered him in. Belle crumbled in the face of his grief, falling into a clinging embrace.

"It's all right, Papa. I can do this. I can be brave!"

Even to her own ears, her voice sounded small, _young_. One-and-twenty years were the springtime of life. Papa framed her face between his sword-scarred palms, careworn face twisted with pain.

"No darling, my brave girl. It is I who cannot bear this."

"You must, milord," the witch said, "One of the girl's blood must offer the sacrifice to complete the circle. Do this and by a watch's end, your kingdom will be safe forever."

Sounds of battle rose from the yard: the shouts of men, the ring of steel, the screams of shattered horses and the unholy roars of monsters. Something hot and powerful stirred in Belle and she swiped away her tears.

"We have to, Papa. There's no time," she said. Papa took a steadying breath, and in him Belle saw the fearless commander who would rule the Marchlands for years more, who would marry and sire another heir once she was—

"Here, child." Beneath the steel in the witch's voice, she heard a note of sympathy. That was enough to urge her into motion.

Belle shed the oversized robe, leaving her clad in only a white shift. An acolyte unbound her hair, leaving her chestnut curls to twist and fly in the wind. Belle climbed atop the bier and lay on her back, heart pounding in her throat. The witch and her acolytes began to chant in a low, coarse tongue that Belle's scholar's ear registered as a bastardization of the high priests' who sang in every chapel in the realm. Her papa moved to stand at her left, pulling the weapon from an iron-bound case. A wicked thing bought at the price of many good men's lives. A dagger as long as her forearm, its wavy blade gleaming, spiky script spelling a name: _Rumplestiltskin_.

"I love you, Belle," Papa said, hand shaking on the dagger's hilt. An eerie peace settled over her and Belle mustered a trembling smile.

"I love you too, Papa. I forgive you."

The dagger fell and all Belle knew was blinding, red-black pain and yawning darkness. Dying, she reached out and saw a face. Green-gold scales, forest-deep eyes and wild hair and felt . . . _something_.

 _Rumplestiltskin_.

Something twisted in the very center of him, his shriveled, cursed-black soul writhed. He leapt from his spinning wheel with a cry. _Rumplestiltskin_ , a voice whispered and every particle of his body surged toward that voice. Rage bled through the shock, bled through the first true pain he'd felt in centuries.

He surged through the ether to the source. They would learn what it was to paw at the Dark One with their pithy magic—the tableau that met his eyes once the scarlet smoke cleared struck him with blind terror. The _dagger_ buried in the chest of a young girl quenched in red blood, surrounded by witches in red robes and red-flamed candles.

Paralyzed, Rumplestiltskin watched the dagger _dissolve_ into golden light and melt into the girl. Her body contracted in a paroxysm of agony, blazing gold light carving a magical tattoo in the image of the knife. A pulse of primeval magic burst out, extinguishing the candles and knocking all but Rumplestiltskin to their knees. Powerful magic, he thought, beyond this coven's ken. Powerful enough to bind him.

The older man recovered first, staggering to his feet and resting a hand on the girl's forehead.

"I command thee, Dark One. Stop this bloodshed."

The burning compulsion forbade him from leaving, but he felt no urge to obey the man, a Marchlander by the lilt of his speech and a lord by his bearing. He looked again at the girl, a lovely thing beneath the blood and the pall of death. A sneer of utter disgust twisted his mouth. This man had sacrificed his own _daughter_.

"You fool. Your ploy failed," he said, summoning the darkest of magics to obliterate this weakling and remind all the realms that the Dark One was not to be trifled with. He took one step into the circle of gutted candles surrounding the bier. The girl sucked in a deep breath, bewildered eyes opening. A chill swept through him, his mind smote by a vague impression of _Other_ , fear, confusion, a terrified wonder at the energy swirling beneath her breastbone—Gods! He was . . . _bonded_ to the girl.

"Papa?" the girl said, shakily rising. Joy creased the man's wrinkled visage, he snatched her into a bruising embrace.

"B-"

"Do not speak her name, milord! The Dark One could cripple you!" the witch said, kneeling beside a fallen acolyte. His coiled rage surged out, simultaneously shoving each of the coven against the walls, pale throats squeezed by invisible fingers.

"You made a grave error summoning me," he snarled.

The girl tore free from her father's grip. Her tattered shift and the congealing blood did little to conceal the ripe curves of her breasts and the shimmering gold tattoo inscribed with his name stretching from breastbone to navel.

"Rumplestiltskin, stop."

He froze, his magic failing at the word of this . . . this _child_! Something like panic bubbled up, a bottomless terror he had not felt since he was a crippled spinner and his choices were not his own. By some travesty of fate and magic, this girl now _was_ the dagger, the key to his demise and the only one in the world who could bend his will. The coven fell to the floor, sucking in ragged gasps of air and Rumplestiltskin stood arm outstretched, unmoving like the impotent fool he was.

"You've damned us both, dearie," he said. The girl took a wobbling step toward him, her painfully blue eyes locked with his.

"I am sorry for this, but there is no time for explanation. I can command you, I feel it." Her pale fingers traced the sharp tip of the tattoo just below the twin curves of her breasts. A jolt raced through him, of mingled loathing and unbidden lust.

"Indeed, _Mistress_. What is thy bidding?" he spat with a curt, theatric bow.

"Drive all the ogres from the Marchlands, drive them beyond the mountains back to their lands. Now." Even half-naked, trembling and exhausted by her resurrection, the girl spoke like a queen. Rumplestiltskin fought the compulsion; it was like drops of acid on his skin, as undeniable as breathing.

"So be it."

Fresh from his turning, Rumplestiltskin had found great pleasure in bloodshed. It was a brutal literal taking back of his stolen power. _A man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets_. The joy had faded after some years; he'd learned it was easier and less messy to simply twist them by the grip of their own greed.

The girl's haunted face, the coven, the fool father all roused a fierce, helpless rage that burst from him like a flood. Purple magic, brilliant and crackling like fire, surged from his taloned hands. Ogres twisted and buckled before him; their agonized screams filled him with unholy joy. It took little time and less effort as Rumplestiltskin crossed the battlefield at a stroll, his magic howling before him.

His predecessor Zoso had been enslaved by the dagger, and sought death to end his servitude. Rumplestiltskin did not have such a luxury. There was a curse to be made, and Bae to find. Gods, _Bae_. Quickly, Rumplestiltskin buried the image of his boy. So fresh from their bonding, there was no telling how easily thought and emotion would bleed from the girl. Blood magic was sticky, and all he knew of the dagger spoke of the oldest and most potent of magic. Still, he had nothing but time to unravel an answer.

An ogre took advantage of his momentary lapse in concentration and struck, the black-pitted steel of his axe sinking deep into Rumplestiltskin shoulder. Inside, he heard the girl cry out, in _concern_? Not pain, for the blow barely registered. A mocking smile stretched his lips, and he held out a hand. A slight flex of his fingers shattered every bone in the ogre's body. Still alive, it fell screeching to the ground. Monsters—the same his boy had so feared, the same that had threatened Rumplestiltskin's own generation. Once he'd walked onto a field of battle and made the slaughter stop.

"Stop! I said drive them away. I want no slaughter here." Again, he was stopped mid-step, as if paralyzed by that girl's thrice-cursed Marchlander voice, heard as if she stood beside him.

"The only way to drive them away _is_ to kill them, Mistress. They are like locusts, mindless in pursuit of resources. Now _RELEASE ME_!" he said, aloud and through his mind. He pushed as much as could against their bond, immovable as it was. The grip on his limbs loosened and Rumplestilskin surged forward, purple mist spreading over every mile of the Marchlands borders.

Before an hour had passed, he had extinguished a race. He reached through the ether and yanked the girl to him, along with the father. So he did have a degree of control, but precious little. The girl, in her ruined shift surveyed the bloody wreckage that was once a wheat field.

"They're gone? Just like that?" the father said, something like relief in his voice.

"Every last one," he said, enunciating the words with a faint savage relish. The girl's blue eyes seemed to swallow her face as she surveyed his handiwork. Then those eyes met his, crackling with anger. Its heat shivered through their bond and Rumplestiltskin couldn't hide his mossy smile.

"Are you displeased, Mistress?" he said.

"Am I dis-" she broke off, mastered her emotion, "I wanted no such slaughter. It makes us no better than them." Rumplestiltskin shrugged, plucking at the tear in his dragonhide coat in distaste. The scaled skin beneath was unbroken. Ogre steel had been much better a hundred years ago.

"I did as I was commanded," he said, wagging a taloned finger at her, "now it's my turn."

Quick as thought, he yanked the girl against his chest and melted away to the Dark Castle. Her father's cry of anguish followed them. Coughing on crimson smoke, the girl dragged in breath, but Rumplestiltskin was faster. He clapped a hand over her mouth, shoving her against the wall. Terror surged through their fresh bond. She spent several fruitless minutes striking and kicking at him. Luckily for him, her thoughts were too disorganized and overwhelmed to attempt to command him. It was not the voice that commanded magic, but thought and intent. He would keep that tidbit to himself as long as he was able. Any leverage against her was useful.

She subsided, shaking like a frightened kitten in his implacable grasp. Implacable, but not cruel. He had never delighted in harming innocents like Cora. The puffs of breath from her nostrils were swift, tears leaking from her eyes. His rage mellowed in the face of her fear. Any multitude of sins could be heaped on his head, but never rape.

"I told you it was a grave error to summon me. But let's make a deal. I let go of you now, only if you swear you will mind your tongue and not command me willy-nilly. Hm? Hm?"

The girl nodded, her lips moving in words of assent against his palm. The soft moist kiss of her mouth sent another ripple of disconcerting lust through him. It washed through the bond before he could stop it. Gods, now she would think he was to ravish her! What was to stop her from commanding that he cut off his cock to prevent him assaulting her virtue? Instead, he felt a kindling heat pool inside her, a lazy unfurling of lust. If he had not been immortal and thus immune to such things, Rumplestiltskin was certain he could have fainted.

His grip softened a degree and his eyes roved over her with renewed interest, such a soft supple body, nipples pert, straining against that that ragged, bloody shift . . . of course. _Blood magic_. The two of them were intoxicated by old, powerful magic, no different than if they had smoked dwarven herb. There was a reason most cults of magic had sex as a tenant of worship. In his mind, Rumplestiltskin uttered a string of spells, of clarification and focus. The yammering of emotion quieted a little.

"We are agreed, yes?" he asked. The girl nodded solemnly.

Rumplestiltskin peeled his hands from her body and held them spread, as if she would attack. There was steel in her, despite her bedraggled appearance. Magically bound or no, if she wanted to attack him, she would. The girl's blue eyes darted around the Great Hall, from the polished table to the fireplace, then lingering along the assorted treasures. For his part, Rumplestiltskin made himself as nonthreatening as possible, leaning against the table with his arms folded. The girl moved toward the tall widows, curtains tacked down. As the sun set, it had grown dark. Though his eyes were still keen, hers were not. With a negligent gesture, he kindled a fire in the grate.

"What is your name?" he asked gently.

"The witch said you could cripple-" she began to say. He fought a sudden surge of anger.

"The _witch_ will hear from me in time. You knew enough of the dagger to know it would control me. You enslaved me with it. What could I possibly do that you could not stop with a word?"

The girl flinched at his wording, clutching the folds of her shift together. She tucked her wild brown curls behind her ear.

"We were desperate. The ogres were at the gates—"

"Aye, _desperate_ ," he repeated, rising to pace the floor, "I am known to make a deal or two. Did it not occur to you to simply _ask_?" It accomplished nothing to berate the girl, but it made him feel better. He could not contemplate the consequences just yet, the schemes of three hundred years that might evaporate at this child's word. She seemed to shrink into herself.

"I know. I am sorry," she said, tears welling in her eyes, "I didn't expect this to happen. I don't even know what _this_ is." She touched the dagger tattoo, it glowed briefly in response. He exhaled a breath through his nostrils, snapping his fingers. A fur-lined cloak materialized around her shoulders. She whispered her thanks.

"Nor I. The coven's magic is nothing against mine. All their work should have accomplished was needlessly killing you. Possession of the dagger is all that is required to control me. But magic is a wily thing. There is something here I haven't learned yet." There was a faint savage emphasis on 'yet.' He would find the answer, and rid himself of this enslavement as no Dark One had before him.

"What do we do?" she said.

Rumplestiltskin's smirk was nasty.

"That depends entirely on you, _Mistress_ ," he said. A subtle change settled over her, a squaring of her shoulders, a glint of the steel he had seen in her.

"Belle. My name is Belle."

Rumplestiltskin blinked, oddly touched that she would give him her name. He recovered and bowed theatrically.

"Rumplestiltskin," he trilled.

"The goal of ensnaring the Dark One was to rid my village of the ogres. To end this brutal war that has cost us so many. In a single stroke, you've done that. You've freed us. There is no need for me to command you."

"Oh I'm sure that will change. There is always more. More riches, more land. More, more, more. It never ends." The weariness of centuries coated his voice.

He waved a hand, and a moonstone ring appeared around the farthest knuckle of his index finger. A push of magic and the ring glowed a soft white. Belle watched with avid eyes as the glow ebbed, but seemed to pulse within the cold heart of the stone.

"Here. I enchanted the ring. I'd rather not be yanked around by the dagger's compulsion. When you forget your righteous morality and decide to call me to heel, simply say my name. I will hear you." He didn't add that the ring would also tell him the girl's— _Belle's_ —whereabouts at all times, as well as provide him a touchstone to see and hear what was happening around her.

"Thank you," Belle said, sliding the ring from his finger to rest on her right hand. Her brilliant blue eyes met his. A wry smile touched her lips.

"There is good in people. You'll see."

Rumplestilskin shrugged.

"We shall see. Farewell, Belle," he said, flicking his fingers. She disappeared in a cloud of dark purple smoke.

Anxiously, he plucked at the bond between them, searching for threads frayed by distance and found none. The bond pulsed, thick and glossy as a rope made from unicorn's mane—and as unbreakable. He snarled. The ring's magic rested on the edges of his awareness, a subtle itch. At least now he needn't guard his every thought. Proximity, and touch, seemed to intensify the connection. Rumplestiltskin heaved a sigh. It was hard enough trying to engineer a curse to carry him to the Land Without Magic, but that problem was now compounded by _her_.

"With any luck, she'll politely die at her earliest convenience," he said to himself. But something inside him sneered in disbelief.


End file.
